


too

by palmofafreezinghand



Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types
Genre: I guess Edward can have some rights, I just find the dynamic between these three utterly fascinating, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Referenced Infant Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:49:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29567073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palmofafreezinghand/pseuds/palmofafreezinghand
Summary: It took eternal damnation for someone to love her back. The first time anyone told Esme "I love you too."
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	too

Wherever she went those three words trailed behind. Her parents always joked that her first words had been “I love you.” They might as well have been. She had always proclaimed her love so freely. As a child she whispered it to each star before falling asleep. As a teenager, when sleep became elusive, she whispered it to each and every sheep. When the feral tom cat who sought refuge in the creaky sheep shed bit her, he was met with, “it’s okay, I love you!” As a child her parents saw it as endearing. “She’s such a sweetheart.” Her mother would coo when she found Esme had tucked flowers into her parent’s shoes. Her father would beam with pride as she offered half her lunch to her imaginary friend. However as she grew her ability to love so freely became a fault in their eyes, as so many of her other qualities did.

She was fifteen when she was first admonished for the three words that had become a staple of her vocabulary. She had said them offhandedly to her father’s farmhand, David Joseph. An older boy who went to school and synagogue with Esme for years. The pair had spent the summer exchanging stories in their spare moments between farm chores. He was the only person who had eagerly listened to all her tales. Not much of a reader himself but, enraptured nonetheless by the fantasy realms Esme had visited and even the tales she made up all on her own. Her mother had told her to stop bothering him with the pointless drivel but he always assured her she wasn’t a bother.

Under the scorching summer sun with a glass of too sour lemonade he asked her questions about her stories, kept track of plot points and her favorites, he even let her borrow his family’s novels. The enthusiastic reader offered him a listening ear, giving him a chance to escape from his own troubles for a moment. He worked on her parent’s farm to help support his family. His own father had passed in an accident and he was the second eldest son and thus had taken on an immense burden. Esme knew this but she didn’t dwell on it. She allowed him to be a seventeen year old, laughing and dreaming of fairies and far off lands. She teased him about his thick accent, his crush on the rabbi’s daughter, and his irrational fear of chickens.

By the end of summer he had saved a few cents to get her a ‘thank you’ gift. When he found “ _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare_ ” at a rummage sale he knew it was perfect. The cover was torn and it weighed three pounds but it was perfect. He bargained with the seller. In his best print he inscribed on the first page, “ _a bunch of stories of folks who talk funny from the boy who talks funny_.” He wrapped it in leftover newspaper and tucked a few mustard flowers into the twine. It was the most thoughtful gift Esme had ever received. She laughed at the inscription, “God, I love you! Thank you.” She smiled so wide her cheeks hurt and gave him a side hug without thinking. In hindsight it was probably inappropriate, but she didn’t care. Her mother cared deeply.

Esme gave him the watercolor she had done of his late father, and the cookies she had made him. Which, she enthusiastically pointed out she had not burned. The boy set off with his last paycheck from the Platts and promised to write to Esme from his new factory job in the city. When Esme could no longer spot his silhouette on the horizon she left her spot on the front porch. Eager to dive into her new literature she skipped back into the living room to be met with two disapproving glares. “Esme you’re a woman now, you can’t act like that.” Her mother said before her daughter could question.

“What did I do?” Esme asked genuinely.

“I believe you told a boy you loved him.” Her father said coldly.

“And then latched onto him!” Her mother added, appalled by her daughter’s carelessness.

“David’s just a friend!” Esme refuted, frustrated.

She had never even thought of her friend in that manner. She had said that she loved him, and she meant it, but with no scandal. And even if she had, her mother had been on a tireless mission to get her married off. So why would she now object if she did mean it like that?

“A proper woman does not tell men she loves them unless she is married to them.” Her mother said. “Matter of fact, she does not tell anyone she is not closely related to she loves them.”

“And what if I don’t want to be a proper woman?” Esme quickly rebuked. Her mother sighed heavily, familiar with where this conversation was headed. This fight had become routine for the mother and daughter as of late.

“Esme.” Her father added. Warning his daughter to not go further with her disrespect but refusing to take a real stance.

Esme took a pause, gathered her book from the coffee table and moved to leave the room before she pointedly said, her dramatic teenage fashion, “A life without love is one I am not the least bit interested in.”

Loving others came easy to Esme, it was how she understood the world around her. If she loved each and every person around her it made their faults bearable. Her mother was critical. Esme loved her and her way of asserting her opinions. Her father was distant and unamused by her ramblings. Esme loved his devotion to his work and his complex thoughts. If she could just give enough love she would never be disappointed again, and maybe she wouldn’t be a disappointment.

However, after that encounter Esme began to watch her declarations. She never loved less she just refrained from speaking the words. Devoted the energy to expressing her feelings in other means. Little gifts, baking treats, helping with chores. It took great strength to control her desire to scream her love from the rooftops, until it didn’t.

After her mother’s speech about ‘proper women’ she had slowly become more excited about marriage. She silently acknowledged it would be years before she would be able to say the words again but when she did it would be wonderful. She never expected an overwhelming romance like Romeo and Juliet. And frankly dying for your love felt a tad too intense, even for her. She was realistic. She would marry a man she most likely did not love, but could grow too, to make her parents happy. She didn’t need a rose by any other name, all she needed was someone who would listen to her thoughts and stories. Yes, a marriage like that she would be able to love she told herself again and again.

To his credit her husband had told her he loved her. Had he meant it? She pondered once, while cleaning her blood out of her pillowcases. No. In her teenage years she had resigned herself to a life of never saying the word love but always feeling it. Now she realized she was doomed to say the word and never feel it again. Her means of defense suddenly were the weapons used against her. From her cooking to her ironing, everything she did was wrong. Her ways of showing love she had cultivated for years were all seen as faults. As her marriage devolved further into a loveless union she became thankful for that fact. She did not love him. She would tell him she did, just like he told her he did. She would not show him.

When she realized she was pregnant she knew she had no choice. She didn’t love Charles, and at that point had little love left for herself, but refused to let her child be born into a world without it.

She funneled years worth of unused affection to ensure her child was safe and sound. When they were settled she worked to build a world overflowing with love. At the end of the day she would lay in bed and tell her son all about her day at work, what the clouds looked like, or the student’s antics. He would respond with hiccups to funny jokes, and kicked when she sang him lullabies.

She had been told that she was loved before. But she was never loved equally. She had never been told “ _I love you, to_ o.” Charles had always said “You know I love you, Essie.” Unfailingly a precursor or a follow up of horrific violence. When she was young her declarations were never returned by the farm animals, imaginary friends, or her parents. Yet, the tossing and turning throughout the night, the bouts of heartburn, the agonizing kicks assured her for the first time Esme was just as loved as she loved.

When she eventually met the little boy earthside her first words were “I love you,” and she meant them. He could not say them back but it did not matter. She named him Joseph after the kind young farmhand silently praying he would take after his namesake and not his father. Three heavenly days later she whispered “I love you,” one last time. She knew he could not hear her, it must have been hours since the doctor’s delivered the earth shattering news. His small body had been cold for some time. She knew as she silently sobbed the three little words it would be the last time she would ever say them. And a life without love was one she was not interested in.

When she awoke as a mythical creature she felt her determination to live without love fit quite well with the horrors the two men had described. She quickly discovered that assumption could not be more untrue. She became quickly thrilled by her newfound abilities. The way the sun lit up their skin. The ever changing color of her eyes. The enhanced smell of rain meeting the trees. Amidst horror and tragedy she began to fall in love. Not with a person this time but with life itself. She found great joy in her companions as well. She sat on the edge of her seat as the ancient doctor told her of his travels and of lands she has only read about. Found great thrill in beating the teenager in a race. She felt unadulterated joy as she climbed the tallest trees and hopped from branch to branch in a game of supernatural hide and seek. Laughed freely at the glee on the boys’ faces when they finally found her. She loved them.  
She was not truly conscious of the fact until she was deep into transforming the hovel they inhabited. She brought curtains out of storage, fixed the creaky staircase, she made the house into a home. As soon as she acknowledged she loved her companions she knew she would never say the words to either of them. She was partly terrified they would not return her feelings, in any manner. She knew she would be unable to withstand knowing she was simply a guest in their home. Yet, a larger part of her recognized she felt completely and utterly safe and even loved. She did not need to say or hear the words, she knew it.

She had ended up building a world of love, but this time, for herself. When Carlisle picked her bouquets of wildflowers after hunts she knew it was a silent declaration. The way Edward would play piano just a little more impressively when she was in earshot. How Carlisle would laugh at a passage in his novel and then request for her to read the excerpt. The way Edward bounded up the stairs two at a time when he got home from school, anxious to tell her about his day. The way they both listened intently to her own stories. Made a point of asking for her input, even on mundane subjects; such as, which tie looks best. How practically giddy they were to teach her baseball. The comfortable routine the three had fallen into. All sitting near the fire in silence, Edward at the piano or sprawled on the floor. Carlisle reading on the couch. Her sketching in the armchair they had moved near the window, simply because she liked the view.  
It was in one of those mundane nights she had the silent realization. She smiled to herself once she realized she had somehow filled her page with sketches of those she loved so dearly. Her son’s little fist was drawn with loose detail and intense care. Sketch Carlisle, drawn with careful precision, was reading just like the real Carlisle, lounged on the couch. While Sketch Edward, who was drawn hastily since his counterpart was always fidgeting, was smirking to himself. She smiled as she looked up to find real Edward was as well. He kept his eyes on the piano as he switched out his sheet music as he said, “I love you too, Esme.”

She looked back to her page, smiling. What a world of difference that one word made. _Too_.


End file.
